This is what happens after rain: temporary treasure

A study of two mornings, in two parts

Hello from the moss,

Thank you so much for the wonderful reaction to last week’s voiceover; you made me glad that I experimented.

I had a few ideas for this week’s post and in the interests of variety chose the third. I have to say thank you to

Ruth Allen

as her post What is a Nature Writer gave me my inspiration. This is why I have grown to love Substack and mostly hang out here using the app; it gives me riches of reading and, as far as I can, I try to return the favour.

I took Ruth’s instructions and instead of describing where I sit, chose one of the places that I often return to for visual inspiration, using voice notes to record my narrative. Mine is a study in two parts, not just written but observed on two successive mornings in conditions that bid me back: sunshine after early downpour. The first part is from field / voice notes; the second extracts and reshapes the essence.

1. The Lure

Monday 4 August

This place calls to me. I feel it.

The morning rises clear after an early downpour. Three possibilities: the moss itself (due), check in on the thistles, or an area on the edge of the heathered heath that should offer backlit grasses, some ling, a few wildflowers and if needed the fallback of birch trees.

Before anything, there is the path through the pine. Cool damp air. Wetness held on leaf, sometimes falling. Down low there will be magic to find amid the blaeberry. Leaves carry scars: fungus and insect. Strands of silk, fine binding. Devil’s-bit scabious that two days ago were tight green pincushions are purple bud.

Backlit blaeberry (Vaccinium myrtillus) and Devil’s-bit scabiuos (Succisa pratensis)

Light dances: the grasses win, their colour is shifting perceptibly towards Autumn. Summer hangs, like yellowing birch leaves, by a silken thread. 

There are new heathers; the wet has been good for colonisation. Short and compact, juvenile, nonetheless covered in flowers that shift from pink and pale purple in sun to blue in shade.

Rain drops shine, mercurous, held briefly in transit from sky to earth.

The sun is fickle, births new children and then hides behind them. An absent parent or a pushy one? The night fallen father’s fertile seed is turned from shiny liquid metal to vaporous grey.

There are new butterflies, rich brown with orange markings and dark spots. Later I look them up: Scotch Argus.

Tuesday 6 August

Aftermath of rain, falling intensely. Clear sky, blue sunshine, cool at first. All is damp, all is wet. Grasses hang heavy as if with dew, bejewelled. Off the path, distracted, crouching low, finding sparkling gems and silken nets. Each examination reveals more. There are spiders everywhere and within their webs there are smaller spiders. Beware. Be wary.

Scotch Argus flitter about, always just out of the lens’ reach. In a year bad for butterflies the small heathland species have fared better. Their restlessness seems to match my own; they never settle for long. Is there a logic to their flight that meanders through the grass? They seem to pass by the obvious nectar, the ling that is in flower.

Here is an island that juts out into the moss, surrounded by an area of wet heath dominated by ling. Within this small patch there are riches that delay my own meander. Birch of all ages; areas of regeneration bristle densely, access is via deer path and rabbit run. Grasshoppers sing; there is a background hum of man and machine. The birds are quieter now, the occasional call of willow warbler but a sense that others are there, perhaps watching. A buzzard cries. Flies dance and the smallest of deer ticks ascend trousers. Besides ling there are few flowers left; yellow tormentil is fading, its leaves already turning scarlet. Warm sun aside, there is a sense that autumn is not far away. Heather adorns the tussocks; in senescence it opens up as if clam. Lichens adorn the dying branches, grey on grey, and provide a purchase for the mosses which will eventually consume them.

2. By A Thread

This place calls:

Before anything
wetness held, 
sometimes falling. 

Strands of silk, 
fine binding
into essence.

Light dances
perceptibly towards Autumn;
Summer suspended by a thread. 

Rain drops shine, mercurous,
briefly in transit 
from sky to earth.

The sun is fickle, births new children,
night fallen fertile seed turned 
to vaporous grey.

Aftermath of rain:

All is damp, all is wet,
heavy as if with dew, bejewelled. 
Low sparkling gems and silken nets. 

There are spiders everywhere; within webs are smaller ones. 
Like the silk, an echo:
Beware. Be wary. 

Flitter,
out of reach, restless, 
never settle for long.

Here is an island,
riches that delay,
all ages. 

An open heart, 
adorned in senescence, 
grey upon grey.

A purchase which will, 
eventually, 
consume.

Sing, quieter now, 
left, fading:
autumn is not far away. 

How you can help

I greatly enjoy writing these letters to you, but it does take me away from creating other saleable work. This is my 50th letter 🥳 since I came over to Substack and to mark the end of this first year I would like to ask you to support me continue writing and sharing here by upgrading to a paid subscription. It costs £5 a month, or £50 a year.

If you’re not able to upgrade at this time, remember that you can still help: every 💛 comment and share helps grow community and increase visibility, and while it seems a little odd, you can do this at the bottom of your email.

Until next week,

Encore: the extra something at the end

Have you noticed the way that webs move in a breeze? At 1/10 second, look closely and you can see the rotation in the light reflected by the water drops.

All words and images copyright © Michela Griffith except where otherwise noted